


Better With You By My Side

by conshellation



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Smut, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conshellation/pseuds/conshellation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan and Phil are both sons of rich families and are sent to ballroom dancing lessons. Because there is a shortage of girls, Dan and Phil end up as partners. Phil really doesn’t want to be there and Dan doesn’t either, but is so frustrated by the fact Phil doesn’t want to dance with him he is determined to get him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HI so a lot of u might recognise me as phanlight from tumblr which is where this fic was originally posted but i decided to bring it to ao3 so um here you go

_One_

“Adam?” Dan bursts into his brothers bedroom.

“No, you can’t.” Adam immediately waves him off, barely takes his eyes off his magazine. “You still haven’t paid me last week’s £20 back yet.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “I don’t want  _money._  Have you seen my new shirt anywhere?” 

Adam looks up indifferently. “The black one?”

Dan nods.

Adam’s face suddenly lights up. “With the cravat?”

Dan’s nods become increasingly hopeful.

“Nope.” Adam suddenly picks up his magazine, kicking his legs back up on the bed. 

Dan fixes a steady glare on his older brother, before slamming his door behind him and rushing back into the hallway where he had originally started. He avoids mentioning to the housekeeper when questioned  _why are you running around like a baby elephant?_  that he needs to be dressed and ready for the chauffer at 11:30.  
As he’s still standing in the long hallway, fully clothed in his pyjamas and there’s still no sign of his new shirt.

And it’s now 11:20.

He conquers  _another_ flight of stairs back up to his own room with a lazy jog, the size of his house a huge inconvenience when it comes to searching the entire six-storey building whilst on a very tight schedule. Or when it comes to stair-climbing altogether, which with Dan’s lack of interest in any kind of physical activity other than walking from his room to his kitchen, usually results in dangerously severe breathlessness and an inability to move for the next half-hour.

But as he relentlessly throws clothes from his wardrobe onto his pristine floor, he knows he can’t afford to waste another minute trying to recover from the inexplicable demands of a couple of stairs, and continues delving through the fabric jungle in the hopes of possibly finding this stupid shirt he didn’t even want to wear anyway.

An irritatingly itchy collar, stupid reflection, and an explosion of laundry coating his bedroom carpet later, Dan glares at the mirror, watching the brown-haired reflection glare back at him with equal amount of disgust at the fact he resembles a character of  _Pride and Prejudice_  with this stupid uniform-type costume, convinced that no-one else in the class could possibly look  _this_ ridiculous. He’d be a laughing stock; his clothing choice weekly comedy gold for all his classmates. He’d have to start getting used to the name Dan Howell the-

“Chauffer’s here!” He hears Audrey, the housekeeper, call up the stairs for him. He groans, feeling his heart sink as he gives his stupid cravat one final tweak, runs his fingers through his fringe one final time, and turns himself away from the mirror, approaching the door with extreme reluctance.

To say the least, he didn’t exactly  _want_  to be doing this. In terms of priorities in his life, it wasn’t exactly nearing number one on the already seemingly-neverending list, especially now he’s joined Welfeather Grammar School and has had to cut down on even more xbox time in order to battle the fifteen unfinished Literature essays he’d let pile up since Friday; the repercussions of being accepted into the second best school in the UK. In terms of preserving precious time to explore the enchantment of the Final Fantasy world, being pushed into fucking  _Ballroom dancing_ lessons was definitely not a wonderful contribution, and he glares out the taxi window, drowning out any small talk the driver attempts to make with My Chemical Romance bumped up to 80% volume.

Judging by the abrupt deceleration of the taxi outside a reasonably pretty building, Dan assumes they’ve arrived. He nudges open the door, carelessly tossing his Dad’s credit card onto the passenger seat for the driver’s payment without looking behind and instead fixates his squint on the decorative brickwork, the sculptural concrete carvings framing the wooden double doors and to his surprise, actually making quite an aesthetically pleasing first impression.

His pessimistic nature is less quick to judge what the lessons  _inside_  would consist of, however good-looking the building may appear.

“Here.” The driver says, nudging Dan with the card machine. He bounces back into reality, absent-mindedly tapping in the code as if it was a second nature, before pulling it out, muttering a quick ‘thanks’ before reluctantly hauling both himself and his bag out of the car, hearing the door slam louder than expected behind him with the force he’d accidentally used as a result of supposed nerves getting the better of him.

Dan doesn’t  _like_  new things. He’s had more than enough experience with being the ‘new kid’ at the countless schools he’d been jumping across the UK to as a result of his Dad’s annoyingly inconsistent job, requiring an extravagant amount of property buyers snooping around his room several times a month much to his irritation and mutters of “you could’ve  _knocked_ “, sellers, who in which case he  _was_ the snooper around room-after-room of mediocre décor and boring small talk over a lukewarm cup of tea, and spending too many hours spent mindlessly picking at the expensive leather furniture in Brock Taylor. He  _hates_  moving. He’d like to consider the fact he might actually  _settle_  down in London at Welfeather, but he certainly wasn’t banking on it. He wasn’t banking on  _anything_. Their houses spent more time  _on_  the market than off it, and their idea of ‘settling’ was staying in the same place for a maximum record of six months.

Dan doesn’t like new things. But he’s certainly used to them.

He takes a deep breath, familiarizing himself with the nerves swirling hotly in his stomach, mentally repeating unconvincing assurances of  _’no one is staring at you, no one is staring at you…_ ’ in his mind, before pushing open one of the double doors and slipping inside, away from the streets of modern judgement and into some kind of hall that looks as if he has gone into some kind of 400-year timewarp.

Contrary to the breathtakingly decorative exterior of the building, Dan can’t help but let himself feel a little disappointed at the absence of huge chandeliers, portraits of Royal family members from the 1700s, and deep red carpets covering the winding staircases.

There  _are_ staircases, of course. And carpet. Although Dan thinks they’re leaning more towards resembling the staircases at his school near the History block as opposed to the staircases appearing in the decorative background of period dramas.

The carpet’s a little less than deep red as he stares beyond his shoes; the beige-ish flooring stares straight back at him and he lets his eyes relentlessly trace along the faded footprints of previous dancers, noticing weird, large rugs he thought only existed on Antiques Roadshow when his gaze expands beyond his personal circumference of no more than a few metres.

“Hello.” He breaks out of his judgementally disappointed trance, almost instantly met by a bouncy-looking red haired woman of about 30 years, greeting him with a pearly-white smile as she approached him.

“Er- hi…” He frowns slightly, subconsciously assessing whether or not he’s even come to the right place altogether, although judging by the uncountable frills on her silk blouse tightly tucked into her pencil skirt, he figures maybe his new outfit won’t be  _quite_  as ridiculed as he‘d feared.

She glances at the clipboard Dan notices she’s clutching. “You’re here for the dancing class, right?”

“Yeah, I-…”

“I’m Sally.” She holds out her hand, interrupting his stutter with her broad, penetrating voice. Dan gulps, gingerly taking out his own hand and loosely connecting them in a weird, pathetic greeting although she was eager to pick up the enthusiasm of the handshake, nearly leaving Dan with a dislocated shoulder in the process. “And you are?”

“I-..I’m Daniel.” He gulps again, flashing her a forced smile; already feeling undesirably victimised with the sheer effort of communicating with such an obviously extroverted character when all he really wants to do right now is run back out through the doors and shout after the taxi that had left him behind here.

“Howell?” She raises an eyebrow, her glances repeatedly differentiating from the clipboard, and up to Dan.

“Mhm.” He nibbles his lip tentatively.

“Very well.” She responds with a quiet nod, briefly scraping her sharp pencil across the page whilst Dan waits in a patient silence for her to finish. “Just go through those doors left to the reception-” she indicates beyond a stretch of desk accompanied by a busy-looking receptionist behind it, and at a door labelled “ _STUDIO THREE_ ”

Dan thanks her and begins nervously shuffling towards the door, having a private debate with himself over whatever happened to Studio one and two.

He stops once he’s at the doors and can hear a constant hum of teenage conversations coming from the inside as he peeks into the small rectangular panes of glass either side of them; trying to identify how many people he would be up against when it came to all this daft ‘icebreaking’ nonsense he‘s so often left to contend with. He finds he’s nibbling his lip again; a habit that only seemed to kick in at the most uncomfortable of times (he could still remember exactly how much of a state his poor bottom lip was in after every school movement he was forced to cope with.) which didn’t fail to bring back repressed memories of just  _how_ unpleasant being the only one alone in a room full of people who all know each other is.

Unpleasant, sure. But Dan’s used to it.

He gulps again, past caring about the sharp stinging now left on his reddening skin by his teeth, and pushes open the doors before he can think of anything better to do.

The opening of the doors allows the muffled conversation to swim up in volume as he finds himself suddenly consumed in the numerous loud voices simultaneously buzzing around him, giving him false hope that given they all seem pretty immersed in their own lives, there’s a slim possibility he  _might_  just go as unnoticed as he’d desired.

Chance would be a fine thing.

On his entry, the attention given to “Susan was up to last weekend” suddenly shifts onto the unrecognizable brown-haired twat who’d just interrupted their heated discussion, and Dan suddenly realizes glancing up for even half a second is a huge mistake, as in that one tick of the mahogany grandfather clock in the corner of the room, he’s met with every pair of blue, green, brown and whatever other colour eyes he realized is fixed on him.

The silence is broken by the continuous steady ticks of the clock in the background, which a matter of seconds ago was completely swallowed up by the overpowering sound of constant chatting Dan now realizes he’s craving. Being stared at  _isn’t_  one of his all-time talents. He doesn’t  _do_ silence. He likes the background to hide in. Crowds to be swallowed into, and attention to be given to the girl next to him; the boy taller than him, that weird kid who-

“Can we help?” He snaps out of his self-indulgent thought process, to find himself almost face-to-face with one of the taller boys, eyeing Dan up and down with an emerald glint in his narrowed eye. Dan gulped in response, figuring that if looks could kill, he should’ve written his will earlier.

“Shaun, it’s just the new kid.” His supposed friend stands up next to him, placing a hand on the blonde-haired boy’s shoulder and giving Dan a quick once-over, as if he doesn’t already have enough eyes on him.  _The New Kid._ The dauntingly familiar name echoes through his mind.

“What’s your name?” A boy even taller than ‘Shaun’ approaches him, the height difference between him and Dan facing him with an awkward, unwanted staring contest with the boy’s chest, before he glances up, embarrassed about what disadvantages being a mere 5”6 put him at.  _Here we go again._

“I-… Dan.” He stutters, feeling his heart thud as his lips begins to sting again with the pressure his teeth are putting it under. It isn’t even as if they were being particularly rude or unwelcoming, anyway. He’s had far worse introductions than this. This is _heavenly_  compared to the bruise he probably still has on his back from being smashed into numerous lockers on his first day at Bridgewater High last year.

“Oh. Hey, Dan” The tall boy’s face suddenly softens into, to Dan’s utter disbelief, into a smile. No. It  _can’t_ be a smile. Dan blinks suspiciously. Why’s the boy  _smiling_ at him _?_

 Did he do something unintentionally humorous? Does he have something on his face? Oh god, it’s the outfit, isn’t it? He’s sure his black satin cravat is worth a few injuries to limp home with. And as for his  _shirt._

-

He gulps again, tugging on the cuffs of his sleeve as he scans the faces in the room properly, suddenly realizing that no one is actually glaring at him, no whispers or cackles are being quietly exchanged over his stupid outfit, and that nearly everyone in the room is wearing a similar, if not an almost identical clothing choice.  _This **can’t** be right. _Dan’s mind is rich in scepticism.  _Where are the crowds of people in jeans and t-shirts?_ _Why am I not the only overdressed guy?_ _Are they saving the name-calling for when we actually start the class?_

He has half a mind to poke his head out of the door and check he hadn’t got Studio Three mixed up with something else.

“Are you okay?” Another voice pipes up from the other side of the changing room, facing Dan with a ginger-haired boy sitting on the bench alongside two girls fixing him with the same expression.

Dan can‘t respond with anything more coherent than another stupid stutter.

“I-er… I, yeah. I’m-…”

“I’m Gregory, and this is Lisa.” He indicates to a curly-haired girl on his left-hand side, who greeted Dan with a welcoming grin. “Don’t worry; everyone here’s lovely. You’ll make friends quickly enough.” He gives the nervous boy a quick smile, making Dan realize he’s addressing his nervous behaviour that he probably isn’t doing a fantastic job of hiding.

He nods and smiles in response, although he can’t help feeling a little offended at how Gregory had talked to him with such a patronising tone, despite the face he’s sure it wasn’t intended in that way.

No-one seems to have any other intentions other than being  _nice._

And Dan’s not used to it.

He’d probably feel more comfortable with a few insults thrown into the mix. He knows how to deal with a billion insults quicker than he could possibly find a way to deal with one compliment.

He also can’t help noticing how prominently well-spoken everyone appeared to be as they began taking it in turns to introduce themselves to Dan. Is this what the other side of London’s like? Where he lives, it was considered a miracle if they could make it through a Friday night without a letter from the police through the door asking if anyone knew anything about yet another casual stabbing.

Dan is a stranger to  _nice_ behaviour. People who don’t leave you with purple marks littering your upper arm every day, whether it be a result of a “friendly” punch or not. Even at Welfeather, which is by far probably the best school he’s attended in terms of friendship and quality of education (although who needs education that when you have actual people to share pasta and talk about anime with?) there still wasn’t a day he didn’t come home with some kind of injury, ranging from a small scratch from a round of “Slapsies”, to being sent home with a nosebleed. (That was only one time, though.) It was just the done thing. The “banter.”

Dan can’t come to terms with why his nose is still in tact.

“When-… when does the class start?” He finds himself mumbling through the biting of his thumb skin; an anxious reflex he was no stranger to.

“In about five minutes.” The Shaun kid answers, giving him a smile and budging up along the bench. “Want a seat?”

Dan gives him a quick grin of appreciation, hauling his (probably unnecessary) bag back up onto his shoulder and scuttling over to the empty space on the bench. He’s almost  _thankful_ they‘re not all complete dicks.

-

Shaun’s pretty nice. Dan quickly realizes they have little to nothing in common; while Dan’s doing a kick-ass killstreak in the latest edition of Call of Duty, Shaun will be reciting ‘The Glory of The Lord.” in church choir. Dan only remembers the name of that particular song thanks to Edexcel GCSE music as opposed to it being what he sung passionately every Sunday.

It’s pretty obvious why  _he’s_ here for ballroom dancing lessons.

It’s pretty obvious why  _everyone_ who Dan’s met is here for this. They all share the same background. They all have connections, whether it be through the same school (Dan soon learns a lot of them board at the school he’d heard his friends refer to as ‘ _Shitty Saintsbridge_ ’) or through other innocent hobbies or pastimes. (Dan also learns Shaun’s not the only church choir-goer, nor is Lisa the only member of the knitting club.)

Not a single xbox or Chinese Takeaway in sight.

Despite Dan’s inevitable discomfort with being the only one without any kind of real connection, or anything in common with anyone  _at all_ for that matter, it’s not like it’s anything he isn’t already familiar with. (well, apart from the friendliness of course) He knows he’ll eventually get used to it; like he’s forced to get used to everything his unnecessarily eventful life throws at him.

Well, at least once he gets over the itchiness of this stupid frilly collar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil are both sons of rich families and are sent to ballroom dancing lessons. Because there is a shortage of girls, Dan and Phil end up as partners. Phil really doesn’t want to be there and Dan doesn’t either, but is so frustrated by the fact Phil doesn’t want to dance with him he is determined to get him to.

_**ross:** _ _u coming_

_got dance :/_  Dan types back, his sleeve cuffs making an excellent phone shield from the prying eyes of Mrs. Weymouth, who judging by her silver-coloured hair scraped back in a tight bun and her peering at the register through her gold-chained glasses, he reckons is the teacher. A teacher that Dan didn’t look as if he wanted to get on the wrong side of.

 _ **ross:**_ _hahaha peak._  his phone vibrates back, earning a narrow-eyed glare to the screen from the brown haired boy.

 _finishing at 4. I can come then?_  he types back, relying on his well-practised skill of not looking at the phone screen while responding to blunt, badly-worded text from his friends practising exactly the same skill as him, accompanied by tentative glances up to their teachers and a slip of the phone up various items of clothing whenever she turned her head slightly.

_**ross:** _ _ok._

“You!” A penetrating female voice suddenly barks, creating an echo filling the hall causing silence to suddenly fall amongst every classmate in less time it took to press down on the lock button, resulting in every single pair of eyes in the room on Dan. Again.  
  
Dan jumps, enough adrenaline shooting through his heart to perform a skydiving stunt as he gasps, his whole body tensing up with the sudden wave of embarrassment, fear, and stupid regret as his eyes meet the evil glint of Mrs. Weymouth’s eyes.

She holds the glare for an agonizingly long time, as if deliberately enjoying the mortification Dan’s forced to wallow in. 

With a sly grin, she holds out her hand, expectantly outstretching her bony fingers, as Dan watches her thin eyebrows raise gleefully. Having already had more than enough familiarization with handing phones to teachers, despite his skill at being so discreet when replying to a few blunt texts from his friends, he rolls his eyes, huffing out a sigh as he drags his phone out from his sleeve and thrusts it in her hand, the case clinking with her numerous rings decorating nearly every finger.

She snatches it off him before he’s given a chance to reconsider. 

“Over there.” She stabs one of her sharp, claw-like fingernails to a frayed, uncomfortable looking chair in the corner of the room. 

Taking a deep breath, Dan stands up, not even daring to make himself aware of the expressions of his surrounding classmates; it would only contribute negatively to his extreme embarrassment right now, and keeps his eyes glued straight down, studying the numerous rows of oak floorboards his feet quietly tap against as he makes his way over to that stupid chair, loathing the silence behind him.

He can’t hide from the attention for long.

 _Are you crazy?!_ Shaun mouths over to Dan as he sits over in the corner, facing the entire class due to the angling of the chair, giving him no option other than to sit and stare at what he had been trying to ignore for the past few minutes.

Dan shrugs cluelessly in response. How was he meant to know Mrs, Weymouth apparently has vision equivalent to a fucking eagle’s? She wears _glasses_ , for Christ’s sake, and looks like that kind of person who would have to have the TV volume up to 150 in order to enjoy the latest episode of Emmerdale. Judging by her visually estimated age, he’s surprised she even knows what a phone _is._

He glares wistfully at his phone, trapped deep within the violent clutches of her scrawny hands. He starts to hope she doesn’t get a look at his lock screen, otherwise he’d  _really_  be in for it.

“Find the partners I assigned you last week.” She tucks a strand of grey hair behind her ears, squinting at her clipboard while the class ripples with obedient movement, Dan watching as Gregory pairs up with Lisa, Shaun with Anastasia, and Jessica with that mouse-brown haired boy Dan didn’t quite catch the name of.

Obviously along with all the other classmates who are still pretty anonymous to Dan, although he reckons judging by their still-shocked expressions aimed over at him, they probably share the same well-behaved-and-good-at-everything traits that he finds in nearly everyone he’s been introduced to so far.

After two minutes of quiet shuffling and organization, Mrs. Weymouth speaks up again. 

“Now, who can remember what we were working on last lesson?” 

A collection of eager hands suddenly rise. 

“Amethyst?” 

Dan bites back a laugh at such a ridiculous name.

“We were practicing the Waltz, Miss.” Amethyst flicks her dark hair behind one small shoulder.

“Correct.” Mrs. Weymouth. “Now, seeing as we only covered the basic steps so briefly last lesson, we’ll continue to work on the stepping rhythm before we start looking at any music.” She gives Daniel a brief glare, before sharply breaking the almost-silence with two abrupt claps of her hands, causing her bracelets to jingle wildly. “Get up.” 

The movement of the class creates an atmosphere of noise and sudden crowding Dan thinks he can hide himself behind, as he hunches up against the chair, uncomfortably shuffling against the uneven wood digging into his back.

This discomfort is soon amplified when Mrs. Weymouths face emerges from the dispersing crowd, fixing Dan with a glare he reckons is worse than the one given to him by their current neighbours after finding out about the ‘incident’ with their cat. 

He doesn’t like to reflect too much on that memory.

“What…” She snatches up his phone from her gown pocket. “…In God’s  _name_  do you think you’re doing?!” 

Dan frowns, unsure as to whether her question is rhetorical or not. “I was–… er… checking the time.” His brain fabricates a quick-enough excuse under the amount of pressure he’s under not to come out with a sarcastic response. Although he figures he is probably far too terrified in the current situation for his witty personality to shine through anyway, despite the temptation.

Mrs. Weymouth raises her eyebrows at the screen, flashing up with a text. “ _Bring your vodka dickhead. We’re gonna get smashed_.” She repeats out loud, a little  _more_  vocal than Dan would’ve liked her to be. “What kind of time do you call  _that_ , then?” 

_Crap._

Her aged voice coloured with such a posh, stuck up accent brings such a hilarious contrast that Dan can’t hold back his laugh at this time.

“You think that’s  _funny_ , do you?” She raises her eyebrows, dropping the phone on the desk as if it’s dripping with something disgusting.

 _Why else would I be laughing?_  Dan’s mind reacts although thankfully out of the audibility of her hearing.

“No, I-…”

“There are to be  _no_  phonecalls or text message conversations or Twittering or whatever it is.” She glares at him in a tone so serious it almost sets Dan back off again, although the already-bitten inside of his cheek saves him from disgracing himself for a second time. “Have I made myself clear?!” 

“Yes.” Dan hisses, keeping his eyes to his thumbs, mindlessly twiddling with each other.

“Yes…?” She narrows her eyes expectantly.

Dan sighs. “Yes _Mrs. Weymouth._ ” 

She fixes him with a steady glare, before turning her attention to the clipboard. “You’re the new one, aren’t you?” 

Dan nods, avoiding another rephrasing of Yes Mrs. Weymouth. 

“Hm.” She scribbles illegible pencil lines onto the paper. “ _Not_ an ideal first impression, I must say…” She mutters to herself, probably without the intention of Dan hearing.  
He raises his eyebrows behind her back, before Shaun catches his eye again, allowing Dan to discover he’d been staring at him for the past couple of minutes. Along with the entirety of the class.

He feels inclined to give them all an awkward smile, not exactly sure of what they were expecting from him after committing such an apparently unforgivable crime. They, themselves, barely look as if they used phones or any kind of technology at  _all_ , let alone in a dancing class, and he feels his gaze sliding past them and onto his poor phone sitting under the clipboard, suddenly realizing putting it on Do Not Disturb would’ve probably been a good idea.

He doesn’t dare trying to sneakily grab it. At this rate, he’s not even sure whether he’ll be lucky enough to get it back _at all._

“Right.” Mrs. Weymouth breaks his wistful trance. “Have you had any previous experience with dancing?” 

 _No one said anything about a bloody interview._  Dan’s mind internally speaks before he can shut it up.

“Er- no… well, I had a few private lessons but never anything proper.” 

She nods slowly. “Have you gained any skills from them?” 

“Not really.” Dan replies. “I was only seven.”

“Beginner, then?” She mutters.

“Mhm.” Dan stares at her clipboard, avoiding any form of eye contact while he can.

“Right, so what we’re doing today is-”

“I  _told_  you we should’ve left at half past one!” The door suddenly bursts open, a woman with short, probably highlighted hair hastily emerging, practically dragging a reluctant teenage boy behind her.

“We would’ve left on time if you didn’t decide to go to the fucking car wash!” The boy retaliates, his deep voice coloured with a slight Northern accent, not bothering to lower his voice in the same fashion Mrs. Weymouth didn’t bother to lower her voice when reading Dan’s texts.

It’s the first time everyone’s attention isn’t on Dan.

“ _Excuse_  me?” Mrs. Weymouth whirls around, completely forgetting about the boy she was Dan cranes his head above the crowd, trying to get a better look of what the hell was going on.

The boy glares at the crowd, his eyes hiding behind a fringe of dark black (obviously dyed) hair. Dan reckons they’re probably the same age; or maybe he’s a little older. His eyes flash back into Dan’s for a brief half-second, revealing an interesting shade of azure Dan was certain only existed amidst the ocean of the most tropical destinations.  
Dan gulps, although the boy glances back up to Mrs. Weymouth before he can begin to fuss over how awkward he probably looks sitting on a chair like this, away from the group. Singled out. Being the ‘New Kid’. Again.

“Sorry.” The woman sighs apologetically. 

“Do you have a reservation?” Mrs. Weymouth grumbles, as if this is some kind of busy restaurant as opposed to a ballroom dancing lesson that the black-haired boy looks as if he’d rather commit several murders than go to.

Although by the omnipresent glare Dan can detect from his mean eyes, he looked as if he’d probably commit the murders anyway. 

He makes Mrs. Weymouth look like Winnie the Pooh.

“Of course.” The woman frowns, grabbing the boy by the collar and hauling him closer to her as if he’s a disobedient dog. “He’s got a lesson.” 

“Name?” Mrs. Weymouth grabs the stupid clipboard again glaring down at the boy.

“Lester.” The boy mumbles through the nibbling of his thumbnail, glaring back up at her. 

It seems as Dan won’t be the only one being punished for being on his phone. Whoever ‘Lester’ is, he looks as if he’d probably be capable of giving Mrs. Weymouth a concussion by throwing his phone at her head if she dared telling him to give it to her.

She ticks his name off hastily, before continuing. “Now, I expect you’re another one of the new students, so-”

“Do I  _look_  like a long-term resident?” 

She glares at his quick retaliation, before continuing. “We’ll have none of that answering back, thank you very much.”

The expression of outrage left on the boy’s face is enough to make it clear he’s obviously not used to being ordered around.

“Now…” She begins, giving his mother a glance so dismissive that she’s given no option other than to quietly remove herself from the room, her heels leaving a repeating clop against the wooden floor; so similar to the one produced by the numerous horses at Dan’s sister’s riding lessons. 

Even his  _sister_  was forced into a better hobby than him. He’d much rather jump a few fences and canter through fields than be stuck _here_ , on a chair so much less comfortable than what any saddle could allow, and with such cruel separation from his precious phone. Not even Emma, the actively disliked riding instructor, could possibly even begin to match up to what Dan had already had to contend with in the first ten minutes of interacting with Mrs. Weymouth.

“…Are you a beginner?”

“You think I look like an expert?” He raises an eyebrow, and Dan realizes he probably has about much of a lack of desire to be here as Dan does.

Mrs. Weymouth rolls her eyes, giving a sharp sigh. “Listen, _Phil-…_ ”

“Yeah, yeah.” He holds a hand up in mock defeat. “I’m a beginner. A new kid. Whatever you want.” 

She raises an eyebrow, her thin lips suddenly twisting into a strange grin. “That works out perfectly, then.” 

“What do you mean?” The ‘Phil’ boy suddenly freezes, his eyebrows fixed into a weird expression.

She chuckles almost cruelly. “I’ve got just the partner for you.” She beckons him to follow her, outstretching one bony finger. 

He slopes behind her reluctantly, stopping when she’d reached a position where they were both in Dan’s line of vision.

_Oh, no._

Dan’s stomach suddenly drops as he’s almost face to face with this stupid black-haired kid, who gives him pretty much the same disgusted expression as they both try to comprehend what the fuck Mrs. Weymouth thinks she’s doing.

Phil gives an uneasy chuckle of disbelief. “You  _are_  joking, right?” 

Mrs. Weymouth gives a smile of fake-innocence. “Is there a problem?” 

“Is there a _problem?!”_  Phil repeats. “I’m not dancing with-… a _guy._ ” He glares at Dan, inwardly shuddering with disgust at the thought of being anywhere near him.

Mrs. Weymouth shrugs helplessly. “You’re both new. You’re both beginners.”

“But we’re both _male!_ ” Phil protests.

Mrs. Weymouth shrugs again. “Not my problem.”  

“You  _can’t_  do this!” Phil complains, making no effort to show at least a  _little_  bit of tact towards the unwanted classmate who’s literally less than a metre away from him.

“The shortage of female classmates is no concern of mine, regardless of what an inconvenience it may appear to you.” Mrs. Weymouth elaborates, and Dan can sense that this Phil guy is beginning to get on her very last nerve. “Now if you’ll be so kind as to stop complaining about something that is out of your control, and pair up with your new dance partner.” She indicates to the brown-haired figure picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve, beginning to wish he had the power to conjure up an effective trap door underneath him. Maybe Phil would be ‘so kind as to’ pull the lever for him, sending him hurtling hundreds of feet under the-

“Oi.” His straying train of thought is broken by a pair of fingers snapping rudely in his face.

He sighs, rolling his eyes as he hauls himself up from his chair and finds his hands beginning to adjust his stupid frilly collar again.

“What’s  _your_  name?” Phil demands as Dan notices there’s an awkward height difference between them, causing him to glance up at his classmate in order to avoid any eye-to-chest conversation. 

“D-Dan…” Dan finds himself stuttering, much to his immediate horror.

“What?” Phil mimics holding his ear out, as if he’s as deaf as an eighty-year-old man, and Dan’s voice is the equivalent to an inaudible whisper.

“ _Dan_.” He raises his voice slightly above the sudden rhythmic tapping of numerous dancing shoes belonging to every boy-and-girl partnership surrounding them accompanied by Mrs. Weymouth’s emphatic counting of _“1 and 2 and-”_

Leaving them standing cluelessly in the corner of the room, almost immediately forgotten about. It was as if she wants to get rid of them as soon as she can by shoving them over to the side and expecting them to get on with instructions they don’t understand.

 _Oh well._  Dan shrugs. He figures if he wants to dread these lessons as little as possible, he might as well befriend this guy. He seems more similar to him than anyone else Dan had interacted with over the course of this half-hour.

He gives Phil a shy smile.

And quickly realizes he probably shouldn’t. 

“What are you grinning at?” Phil glares back down at him with about as much respect and courtesy as would be given to something unpleasant found on the bottom of a shoe. “Faggot, are you?" 

Dan’s smile quickly vanishes as he responds with a wordless glare.

Dan hates being the son of a rich family.

Dan hates being the new kid all the time.

Dan hates these stupid ballroom dancing lessons.

But most of all, Dan hates being partnered with Phil Lester.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil are both sons of rich families and are sent to ballroom dancing lessons. Because there is a shortage of girls, Dan and Phil end up as partners. Phil really doesn’t want to be there and Dan doesn’t either, but is so frustrated by the fact Phil doesn’t want to dance with him he is determined to get him to.

In hindsight, Phil doesn’t exactly bother making any effort to talk or co-operate with Dan, but he also shares the same attitude towards the whole class, inclusive of the people (who, to be honest, wouldn‘t exactly be Dan‘s first choice of companionship either) and the shameful _concept_  of the class and the demands it required. Of course, it isn’t as if Mrs. Weymouth has exceptionally high expectations for either of them considering their beginner-quality skills, but even Dan could manage twice as much as Phil could with minimal effort or unnecessary rudeness.

“Are you going to be doing that for the entire lesson?” He huffs, rolling his eyes as the black-haired classmate sneakily whips out his phone, giving it a sneaky glance as if whatever the lock screen held was a lot more riveting than this stupid class.

“ _What?_ ” Phil flashes him an irritated glare, as if Dan’s company is about as desired as that of a wasp’s.

“Listen-” Dan begins, trying to create an impression on Phil that would give him the idea he wasn’t interacting with another one of the Church-going, hymn-singing broccoli eaters who spent last Sunday night knitting their grandma another thermal sweater for the cold months ahead. “I’m not paying £200 a month to sit here and watch you stare at your phone.”

“I’d be concerned if you _did._ ” Phil widens his eyes, before stretching in mock-relaxation. “I only charge £150 a month.”

“I‘m not paying £200 for pathetic attempts at wit, either.” Dan mutters quickly.

“’Course you aren’t. You’d go to a Michael McIntyre show for that.” Phil fixes Dan with another glare, although the certainty behind his eyes had seemed to vanish along with Dan’s lack of desired response. He shrugs weakly, slipping his phone back up his sleeve in a smoothly quick movement Dan can only envy him for.

Dan, slightly caught off guard by Phil’s quick response, bites the inside of his cheek in response, determined not to show any kind of amusement in front of his new classmate despite his equally mutual hate for Michael bloody McIntyre- another thing they seem to have in common.

“What’s Michael McIntyre ever done to you?” Dan settles for false defence, frowning slightly in what, if anything, is curiosity.

“What _hasn’t_ Michael McIntyre done?!” Phil widens his eyes. “Have you ever _been_  to one of his shows?”

“It’s not exactly somewhere I care to commemorate with the family, no.”Dan narrows his eyes. “I’ve obviously _watched_  it before, though. Not out of choice.” He quickly adds. “Family from the north were visiting, and my cousins _insisted_ -”

“That’s nothing compared to _being_  there.” Phil shudders, the memory almost visibly flashing behind his eyes.

“What were you _doing_ there?” Dan frowns.

Phil glances up inquisitively. “Well, not _much_ , obviousl-”

“I meant _why_  were you there?” Dan sighs, finding it an extreme stretch of his reluctantly emitted effort to elaborate.

“Parents got tickets.” Phil sighs as if it’s as obvious as questioning whether the pope was religious or not.

“They’re into stand-up comedy?” Dan raises an eyebrow, forcing back a laugh at the contrast- meanwhile  _his_  parents waltzing off to the opera house every Saturday night is standard procedure, and never in a million years could he imagine them taking a detour to the O2 arena to watch some unnecessarily hyperactive guy stand on stage and crack unfunny jokes. He doesn’t realize other families actually do that.

“As if I’m proud of it?!” Phil scoffs. “It was only one time, luckily. They don’t religiously attend every show going in the city.”

“I should hope not.” Dan shudders. “You’d never get out of it.”

“I thought I never _would_ , that night.” Phil retorts. “Must have been the longest two hours of my _life._ ”

“What _happened?_ ”

“I’ve screened most of it out of my memory.” Phil gives a shaky, uncomfortable laugh. “Something about an anecdote at the dentist. Lots of incoherent rambling, followed by sudden outbreaks of laughter from the audience that somehow understands whatever the fuck he’s saying.”

“From my observations during the night with the cousins, I felt like we needed subtitles to understand him.”

“At least that was a possible option for you.” Phil glances at him. “You were only watching it on TV. Imagine _being_  there.”  
Dan snorts. “And I thought being dragged to the Opera house was bad.”

“Bad?!” Phil exclaims. “That’s my idea of _luxury._  What’s so wrong with a few hours of La Forza del Destino?”

 _Everything_ , when you’re a twelve-year-old wanting nothing more than to go to your friend’s pool party you missed out on because of it.” Dan sighs, although he can’t help letting himself feel impressed at Phil’s sudden knowledge of Opera.

“Was it really that important you had to go see it?”

“Apparently.” Dan shrugs cluelessly. “I had to survive many weeks of listening to what an ‘awesome time’ they had, listening to their ‘awesome music’ and sitting around ‘soaking up each other’s awesomeness’.”

“Calm down, Janice Ian.” Phi raises his eyebrows, although he makes no effort to hide the tiny grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Howell, Lester!” Their nearly-pleasant conversation comes to an abrupt ending as Mrs. Weymouth emerges from the crowds of paired-up classmates, her glare sharpening as she approaches the two boys leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. Dan whirls round, determined not to let himself give away how alarmed her sudden voice had made him feel. He knows that’ll be something he’ll have to get used to.

Phil, on the other hand, is barely fazed by it. He’s barely fazed by anything, judging by his sudden change of expression- a deadpan, blank stare replacing the _almost_  grin that he was so close to less than half a second ago.

“I trust you’ve been putting the first steps to practice?” She raises a thin eyebrow suspiciously, knowing  _damn well_  neither of them have done a thing since they’d been left to their own devices.

“Uh- yeah, we were just-…” Dan’s eyes flicker to Phil, realizing he was contributing minimal effort towards trying to help him think of an excuse out of further trouble for both of them.

He resists the urge to give Phil a sharp nudge.

“You were just…?” She stares at Phil expectantly, having heard Dan’s voice enough.

“Hm?” He jerks his head up as if she’d been interrupting something of far more importance occurring inside his head. Probably the thought of getting _out of here_  as soon as the clock reaches four.

She drags out a sigh, her scarlet-lipsticked mouth pursed with irritation. “Do you not _remember_  my instructions?!”

“Instructions?“ Phil begins inspecting his fingernails, deliberately making it as obvious as possible how unwelcome she is here. 

 _“Phil!”_ Dan hisses, giving him a death glare Phil can only smirk at. _What’s he doing?_  
“Oh, you _don’t?_ ” She widens her eyes in mock-surprise. “Were you not  _listening_  to my instructions, may I ask?”

“Yes, we were.” Dan quickly defends before Phil has the chance to land them into any more shit than what they can already afford. “We- he was just-… we were talking about how to practice the-…”

“Okay.” Mrs. Weymouth cuts them off. “Show me what you have so far, then.”

It’s enough to even make _Phil_  look up from the exciting world his nails offer.

Dan gulps, his eyes flickering to Phil to notice the boy’s expression is now matching his own.

They study eachother’s eyes for a brief moment, Dan being able to sense Phil’s state of ‘ _Oh crap, maybe my attempts at being cool aren’t appropriate for ballroom dancing classes’_ , as now they’ve both been dumped in a dark hole they won’t be able to resurface from unless they try and pretend to have some kind of  _understanding_  of whatever they were meant to be doing in the space of time they spent bitching about popular comedians and Operas.

To be fair, Phil isn’t the only one who wasn’t listening to Mrs. Weymouth’s instructions. It’s pretty obvious both of them were preoccupied with whining over the fact they were paired with eachother while she was busy actually instructing them. He doesn’t even know what they’re meant to be dancing to.

“Well.” Mrs. Weymouth prompts, gesturing over to the free space in the floor beside the corner of the room. “What’s the hold-up?”

They gulp in unison, exchanging helpless glances as Dan makes the first move over, his shoes tapping against the oak flooring as he stands in the hope that Phil’s following behind him.  
He turns around, keeping his eyes on the floor until the tips of Phil’s shoes come into view, giving him the invitation to glance up at him through his fringe, flicking his untidy hair out of his eyes, thankful he actually had the decency to follow him through with this in contrary to his expectation of slumping back down in the corner and giving his fingernails all the undivided attention they apparently deserve. They shuffle up until they’re face-to-face, although considering the uncomfortable height difference, it’s more nose-to-chest. Dan’s eyes flicker up to Phil’s, realizing he’s staring down at him expectantly, as if he has any better idea of what Mrs. Weymouth is expecting from them.

“Remember what I said about Closed Position.” She mutters, peering at them with growing suspicion from behind her stupid glasses.

Wait. _Closed position_. They must have covered that.

“I- erm, well-…” Dan mutters when Phil remains unhelpfully unresponsive. He vaguely remembers it from his old classes. He remembers Mrs. Weymouth telling him they’re dancing the Waltz, but on Phil’s dramatic entry that was around the time he stopped listening.

 _Closed Position…_  His mind rakes over his memory of badly co-operative dance partners and a teacher that was the tiniest fraction of the strictness of Mrs. Weymouth’s character.  
It was evident he didn’t exactly learn a lot in the very short experience of those classes.

It’s useless. He should’ve been listening.

Mrs. Weymouth’s expression hardens with irritation as she realizes her supposedly irrational expectations on them had actually turned out to be _accurate._

“It’s not _rocket science._ ” She sneers cruelly, relishing every moment that passes while she waits for them to admit they hadn’t been listening.

Phil fixes her with a deathly glare, knowing _exactly_  what she was playing at- but very frustratingly being unable to retaliate with sudden knowledge of the instructions they’d missed.

On the other hand, something suddenly comes back to Dan in the midst of his desperation.Taking a deep breath, knowing Phil was probably going to kill him for even thinking of touching him, he gently rests his left hand near Phil’s right shoulder. As expected, Phil tries not to flinch at the unwanted contact, but gives Dan a quick glance of curiosity as to what he expects him to do, seeing as he has at least _some_  knowledge of what they’re supposed to be doing.

Confused surprise flashes across Mrs. Weymouth’s after being so close to starting up another gleeful rant about how they ‘have to _listen’_ if they want to progress from their ‘shamefully beginner standards’, as if that was a stage she had been way too ‘expert’ to experience, judging by the amount she seemed to look down on both of them compared to that of the rest of the class floating gracefully around the classroom in time to the gently upbeat classical music trickling from the vinyl player in the corner of the room.

“Put your right arm on the back of my left shoulder.” Dan mumbles to Phil, crafting the volume of his voice accordingly so Phil’s the _only_  one who could hear, as opposed to his voice being within the audibility range of Mrs. Weymouth, although in retrospect, it’s evident that because her sight is considerably sharper than Dan estimated, her hearing is probably the same. Regardless of age.

Phil obeys, although Dan sighs in response to his action.

“ _Right_  arm.” He hisses, beginning to find it a chore to keep his voice down as much as he thinks he needs to. He feels Phil switch arms, his right hand hovering uncomfortably beneath Dan’s shoulderblade while trying to keep the most minimal contact he can manage.

Despite their nearly-constructive conversation, it’s evident he doesn’t want to be anywhere near him.

More suddenly comes back to Dan. “Now raise your left arm.”

Phil hauls his arm up in what has to be the sloppiest, most effortless fashion he’s ever seen in anyone. Dan gives him a glare of warning, before gulping suddenly, in the process of building up enough courage to slip his right hand into Phil’s lazy fingers.

Feeling his heart pound, Dan can only pray Phil can’t feel how clammy his hand is becoming in response to being forced to do this. Phil reflects his discomfort, angling his hand away from his grip as if he’s the equivalent to a hot iron he can’t wait to drop.

“It’s a start, I suppose.” Mrs. Weymouth mutters gravely, although her heels clop over to approach them. “Straighten your back.” She nudges Phil uncomfortably, forcing his spine to straighten itself out much to his reluctance. She adjusts their hands, earning a quick exchange of glances from the two boys, before frowning at their posture, gesturing suddenly. “Closer together.”

Dan gulps nervously, feeling his collar double in itchiness as he keeps his eyes fixed forward, refusing to make any kind of eye contact with his partner if he could avoid it as they both take one step forward.

“Ow!” Phil suddenly exclaims in response to Dan’s foot accidentally stepping on his.

“Sorry.” Dan gasps quietly in contrast to the loudness of his voice, loathing the attention he suddenly drew from the rest of the class. “Sorry, I- fuck, I'm sorry.”

Phil fixes him with a steady glare, the forceful glint in his azure eyes dragging Dan’s stare away from the brick wall behind him and onto his classmate. Dan lets himself gulp, praying he wouldn’t show them up anymore than he had already done with an exclamation that was perfectly avoidable.

“Watch it.” He mutters threateningly, and Dan can only be thankful it isn’t anything louder.

He doesn’t dare to move a single muscle in either of his feet after that, not even after Mrs. Weymouth’s relentless complaints of _that’s not close_ _enough_  and _I know this isn’t ideal, but at least try to-…_  and tries to make the distance up to her by completely polishing his posture, making his back a position of ‘deadly straight’ a ruler would only be jealous of, and pointing his nose as upwards as he can manage without having a stare-off with the slanted beams on the ceiling, while still avoiding eye contact with Phil at all costs.

“Good poise.” Mrs. Weymouth nods approvingly in Dan’s direction, which by her lack of generosity with comments, is the highest of compliments, before giving Phil’s half-arsed attempts at keeping his straight back and trying not to drop Dan’s poor hand in disgust a sigh of contempt.

“Back _straight,_  Philip.” She repeats, rolling her eyes at him. Dan starts to wonder whether his lack of co-operation is actually deliberate.

Phil shuffles upright, surprisingly obedient as he suddenly grabs Dan’s waist, pulling him closer to him with enough force to knock the breath out of his lungs with the surprise.  
“Better.” She nods approvingly, eyeing them up and down judgingly.  
Dan holds his poise until his muscles begin aching, hating the observant silence she’d left them in as she continued visually assessing them. From past experiences, he’d seemed to have forgotten ballroom dancing concerns equal demands to a bloody PE lesson.

“Can we relax yet?” Phil whines.

Mrs. Weymouth gives a slight nod of approval, allowing the boys to draw apart immediately, Dan’s arms falling to his sides bringing the biggest wave of relief he’d ever experienced in his sixteen years of human life so far, and judging by Phil’s expression, he expects the same probably goes for him.

The clock chimes for four o’clock, breaking the atmosphere of heavy concentration throughout the class, and Mrs. Weymouth speaks up.

“Okay, that’s it for today’s lesson. Finish off practicing whatever you were doing, and collect your belongings. See you next week.”

Dan corrects himself. _This_  is the biggest feeling of relief he’s ever experienced in his sixteen years of human life so far. 


	4. Chapter 4

It’s never in anything other than situations of extreme desperation Dan realizes his luck in having such a reliable chauffer service; knowing that as soon as he rushes out of the dark oak polished double doors without saying anything else to any of his new classmates, he’d be met with the relief of a black cab parked a convenient matter of footsteps away from him. He leaps straight through the door, relaxing into the leather upholstery as if it’s the first time he’d ever experienced the delights of simple transport before. 

“Good lesson?“ The driver fabricates small talk through Dan’s headphones. He pulls one out reluctantly. 

"Alright.” He lies in a monotonous mumble, hoping the more monosyllabic he is, the more of a chance he’ll avoid a functional conversation. The driver responds with a vague nod, before fixing his eyes back on the road ahead of them, littered with Saturday afternoon traffic. 

“Make any friends?” Dan hesitates, giving the back of his head a suspicious glare in response to his tone of nearly mockery. It’s almost as if he  _knows_ every expressed detail of his social life- or  _lack_ thereof. 

“A few.” He replies, his newly greyed tone making what he replied with before seem like the warmest and friendliest of replies. The driver picks up on it, brushing it off as typical Dan Howell attitude. 

“Nice.” He responds in a tone almost antagonistic. Dan, hoping that it was a conversation-ender, shoves his headphone back in, a feeling of relief washing over him as his eyes follow a red double decker bus swerving through the bustling maze of London vehicles. Hopefully that’ll be the last he’ll have to endure of that. “Your mother wants to talk to you when you get back, I’ve been told." 

Or not. 

"About…?” Dan frowns, settling for permanently keeping the earphone out.

He shrugs. “She didn’t say what about. She just told me to tell you to meet her in the dining room when you return home.” Dan narrows his eyes, keeping them fixed out of the window. Why the  _dining room_? If ever his mother wanted to talk to him, she’d either drop him a simple text or wait for their paths to cross walking down one of the staircases, or whatever. Meeting in a specific  _room_ was unheard of. 

“Which one?” The size of Dan’s house suddenly comes to mind; considering the number of bathrooms, lounges and dining rooms the four vast Victorian concrete walls consisted of, they were pretty much spoilt for choice. 

“Second floor." 

"Couldn’t she have just told you what was going on, considering she’s been specific enough about the room choice?” Dan’s natural sarcasm began leaking out into his tone. The driver shrugs again, leaving Dan with nothing other than the impression that every conversation with him was like a workout for his shoulders. Maybe it ran in the family. The family of bored-looking moustache wearers with absolutely no proper conversational skills and a tendency to replace words with nonchalant shoulder movement. Although around the driver, Dan wasn’t exactly the easiest to talk to himself. Perhaps he was a bundle of joy in the company of his friends, as opposed to how he behaved while wheeling a hormonal brown-haired teenager around London at the drop of a hat. Dan peers into the wingmirror at the driver’s blue eyes glued to the back of the car they’d slowed down behind on account of the traffic lights, beginning to wonder why he looked so  _miserable_ all the time. He was paid decently enough for this stupid job; it wasn’t as if he spent every waking hour of his shift asking customers if they’d ‘like fries with that.’ Maybe that ran in the family, too.

“She was in a rush.” He breaks the silence with a delayed explanation, nearly causing Dan to fix him with a confused glance having been so close to losing the thread of the conversation altogether. 

“Why?” He famously exercised his shoulders again. 

“Never asked.” In times like these, Dan often tends to forget that the chauffer is  _just_ a chauffer with the purpose of providing them with private transport, as opposed to being the family tabloid. Although with a family the size of his, with only managing to see his closest relatives a couple of times a year, he figures they could probably do with something like a tabloid to keep him posted on the 'Family News’ that’s often so unheard of (like he cared what his Aunt Judith was up to in Switzerland anyway). Although finding out whatever the hell his mother was up to would probably be a suitable starting point in terms of keeping posted. That’s the most of his concerns right now. He absent-mindedly unlocks his phone, facing the little red icon of (77) in the corner of the Messaging app; the repercussions of leaving the group chat unattended for a few hours on a Saturday.

**ross:** _no listen alright if you had the choice to fuck either gerard way or alex gaskarth who would you go with_

Dan smirks at his screen, rolling his eyes at exactly what he’d typically expect from his friends.

**dan:** _what have i missed_

**jake:** _dan omg how was twinkletown_

**dan:** _leave it out_

**ryan:** _the ballerina’s back we missed u_

**max:** _you returned at the wrong time this chat is way beyond PG-13 save ur innocence_

**ross:** _yeah and you still haven’t answered me_

**max:** _say another word and i’m calling my mum on you_

**ross:** _gladly ;)_

**jake:** _nasty mate_

**dan:** _…Alex_

**max:** _alex?_

**ryan:** _you what?_

**ross:** _THANK U_

**jake:** _gerard_

**max:** _STOP_

**dan:** _why gerard?_

**jake:** _he can sing better_

**dan:** _excuse me haven’t you even heard alex sing_

**jake:** _gerard’s better live tho_

**dan:** _what’s that got to do with how good in bed he is?_

**jake:** _maybe he’ll serenade u in the middle of it_

**dan:** _yeah cause that’s what everyone wants to hear in bed_

**jake:** _who said anything about a bed :P_

**dan:** _where else did you have in mind then_

**jake:** _well if it’s in a car it’ll be a backseat serenade_

**ryan:** _i’m banning you from the chat for that joke_

**dan:** _in which case you’ll need to fuck alex instead of gerard right_

**jake:** _oh yeah_

**max:** _im dropping out of this chat and becoming a nun_

**ross:** _say hi to jesus for me_

**max:** _i’ll block your number on the way_

**ross:** _hey why me block them two instead_

**max:** _cause you started it_

**ross:** _yeah great idea wasn’t it_

**ryan:** _wouldn’t u though_

**max:** _would i what_

**ryan:** _fuck alex_

**jake:** _gerard though :((((_

**max:** _idk? im not into dudes_

**ryan:** _neither am i doesn’t mean i cant appreciate men_

**max:** _i’ll appreciate them some other time_

**ross:** _come round mine and appreciate me then ;)_

**max:** _can i block your number first_

**ross:** _only if you give me your mums before :P_

Dan chuckles, clicking the lock button on his phone and temporarily shutting his friends out as he realizes the car’s wheels are crunching in the gravel of his driveway, pulling up outside their house. He peers through the curtains of the ground floor as if that can offer any clues regarding what his mum wants to talk to him about; as if the master lounge would hold all the answers to every question occupying his thoughts right now. The second the engine stops, he leaps out of the car without any second thought, giving the door a slam behind him as he stumbles out onto the driveway. 

“Thanks.” He gives the chauffer a polite nod. He tips his hat almost mockingly in response, and Dan starts to think maybe he isn’t as dull and annoying as he thought he was. He gives him a brief smile as a signal of letting him know that he isn’t quite the temperamental, stuck-up teenager he’s made himself out to be. Well, he  _does_

get temperamental sometimes. And he is a teenager. But he isn't  _stuck up_.   

The chauffer actually returns the favour, his lip twitching partially upward before turning back to his Mercedes before the atmosphere became awkward. Dan sighs to himself, turning the opposite way around and heading for the front door, having to resort to gripping hold of the slightly rusty iron handle of the huge lion door knocker as a result of forgetting his keys. Again. No response. He knocks again, applying more force this time. And again. No response. He sighs heavily and drops the handle, sick of hearing the loud, repetitive knocks echo through the hallway at such a volume he could actually hear it from outside. Pulling out his phone, he quickly taps out his password and selects the green 'Call’ icon in the hope that it would be their phone they’d answer this time, if the door was so apparently out of demand. 

“Calm down.” The door suddenly swings open, revealing a breathless Adam clutching at his stitch, obviously having been defeated by numerous flights of stairs. 

“Are you deaf?” Dan retorts, holding up his phone. “I nearly had to resort to phoning one of you." 

"Give me time to answer, I’m not Usain bloody bolt.” He backs out into the hallway, leaving the door open for Dan as he climbs up the porch steps, following him in. 

“Evidently not.” Dan scoffs, earning a halfhearted punch on the arm from his brother. He stops mid-walk, before whirling around. He eyes Dan up and down, suddenly becoming aware of his outfit. “What the fuck are you  _wearing_?” He bursts out laughing, having to clutch his almost-recovered stitch again.

Dan rolls his eyes. “It’s the dress code. Everyone has to wear it.” “I didn’t know the dress code included the 'pretentious twat’ rule." 

He snorts. "Is that a frilly collar?” He tweaks at Dan’s neck. 

“Leave it  _alone_.” Dan slaps his hand away in a royally irritated fashion. 

“Yeah, Downton Abbey called. I think they want their costumes back." 

"Piss off.” Dan rolls his eyes, returning the punch on his upper arm before clambering upstairs. 

“Where are you off to?” Adam raises an eyebrow at Dan’s quick movement, still recovering from his laughing fit at Dan’s dancewear. “Are you late for the horse & carriage?" 

"The  _Chauffer_ -” Dan emphasises on the modern opposition to Victorian equestrian travel “-said mum wants to talk to me about something." 

Adam widens his eyes, having known all too well that their mother wanting to 'talk to Dan’ was often never involving anything particularly positive. "Good luck." 

"Cheers.” Dan smirks in response, mentally preparing himself for some kind of verbally torturous lecture on something he didn’t even know he did. Maybe she found out about the failed maths test at the bottom of his bag? Oh god, he should’ve thrown it away sooner. He swore to himself he was going to do it by at least- What if she found out about him sneaking out last week to meet up with Ryan? Although given everyone in Ryan’s neighbourhood was either too old to care or constantly embarking on such expensive international holidays and business trips, he couldn’t have exactly been caught by anyone significant enough for it to get back to his mother. His neighbourhood wasn’t a worry; he’s certain no one even knows  _him_ , let alone his family. So what did she want? 

“Dan? Is that you?” A distant voice emerges from behind one of the doors in the hallway. 

“Hm?” Dan responds, following the sound; his stupid dancing shoes clopping against the polished wooden floor hollowly until he’d reached the dining room. He pokes his head around the door, being greeted by his mother with a casual smile, although she looks anything  _but_ casual. Dan walks into the room properly, coming to terms with the revelation of finding his mother dolled up in her Sunday Best; including her finest creamy-peach coloured ballgown decorated with a series of Akoya pearls (or something like that; Dan had zoned out halfway through sitting in Wakefield’s all afternoon being lectured by some grey-haired jewellery expert with a funny haircut and narrowed eyes along with his mother, completely shadowing him with her obvious enthusiasm)  that hadn’t seen the light of day since his uncle Albert’s wedding three years ago, with her finest jewellery making a twinkling accompaniment, (probably fucking Akoya pearls again) decorating the pale skin of her neck with a diamond-encrusted pendant, and letting the expensive crystal droplets dangle from her earlobes.  

The next surprise, is suddenly being revealed to what his jewelled-up mother is actually doing. The long, bare table, usually complete with a few newspapers chucked on it and maybe one of Dan’s laptops if he’s staying there for homework, is now apparently decorated as much as his mother; the dark, polished wood has been covered with the white tablecloth that Dan hadn’t seen since two Christmasses ago, decorated with intricate gold thread embroidery. Polished gold candlesticks stood at either ends and in the middle of the table, holding in them unlit poles of smooth, white wax, along with the furnishing of the table being complete with their best gold hand-painted china crockery and serving dishes stacked up at the corner of the table. 

“Bloody hell.” Dan exclaims with widened eyes, coming to the realization that, wearing his ridiculous uniform, he probably fits in like a treat with the decorative nonsense. "What’s going on? It’s not Uncle Timothy’s birthday until next Friday.“ 

She rolls her eyes. "It’s no-one’s birthday.” Dan stares at her expectantly, raising an eyebrow when she glances up at him again from her crockery arrangement. 

“Meaning…?” He prompts when she fails to respond. She rolls her eyes. 

“You’ve forgotten again, haven’t you?” Dan shifts his eyes uneasily, suddenly worrying she was hinting towards some kind of event that he really,  _really_ shouldn’t have forgotten about. Although he usually has his scribbly diary notes, his calendar, and the reminders on his phone prior to his disorganization, and nothing had pinged up into his memory this morning. She cuts off his retracing with a sigh. 

“Do your grandparents not mean  _anything_ to you?" 

"Which ones?” Dan frowns. Grandparents was far too general a term to use when it came to a family the size of his; although he’s hoping more along the lines of his father’s parents; also known as the ones he actually  _likes._

Even then, he hadn’t had any reminders about a miscellaneous grandparent’s birthday. “Winston and Celia…?” She prompts further. Well at least they’re the good ones. 

“What do they want?” He frowns. He’s pretty sure the calendar said Celia wasn’t eighty-one until February, and Winston had already- 

“It’s their golden wedding anniversary, Daniel.” His mother sighs, placing the napkin onto the table sentimentally. Dan’s suddenly aware of every muscle in his stomach unknotting. 

“That’s it?” He accidentally says out loud. She gives him a steady frown of disapproval. 

“Well, I wouldn’t put it in such nonchalant terms, but yes. I suppose that’s 'it’.” Dan glances up at her with apologetic eyes, fiddling with his cufflink. 

“I assume that’s where this golden theme comes in?” He hurriedly changes the subject, letting his eyes trail over the satisfyingly colour-coded decorations.

“Yeah.” She places another fork down. “Most of this stuff hasn’t seen the outside of the attic for years." 

“I can tell.” He smirks, flicking a tiny fleck of dust off the candlestick. “So who’s coming tonight?" 

"Winston and Celia, obviously.” She begins. “Albert, Georgiana, Sylvester, Constance, Harriet, and I’ve asked Sandra if she and the girls could make it, but I don’t think they’ve got back to me yet, so that’s still open.” She racks her brains. “Rosie, Cyril, Tristan, and I think Raphael’s going to be a bit late, but he’ll be there.” Dan nods thoughtfully. No-one too bad, then. “So anyway,” she abandons the table, leaving the rest to Audrey, and walks nearer to where Dan’s standing, tweaking the curtains as she speaks. “How was your lesson?" 

Dan shrugs. "Alright." 

"Who’s your teacher?" 

"Mrs. Weymouth.” Dan shudders. 

“What’s she like, then?" 

"Well, she looks as if she’s just stepped straight out of the 40’s.” Dan reflects back on her vomit-inducing outfit, although given the comment was coming from a boy wearing a fucking  _cravat_ , it’s probably a bit rich. "Acts like it, too.“ Dan predicts she probably has the same close-minded thoughts and morals as that of a person from the 40’s, too, judging by her reluctance of having to pair up Dan with that Phil person. 

"Well she is a ballroom dancing teacher, Daniel. You’re learning traditional dances passed down numerous generations and centuries, not breakdancing in the middle of the street." 

"I’d probably prefer that.” Dan widens his eyes. 

“Who’s your partner, then? Is she pretty?” She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow, her almond-coloured eyes shining knowingly into Dan’s. 

“I, er-… not really.” Dan stutters, being caught off guard with the presumed gender choice of his partner. Although he can’t exactly blame her; how many same-sex couples are seen being taught the Viennese waltz? Probably more than there were in the 40’s, though. 

“Oh.” She drops her gaze, shrugging it off with a smirk. “Is she friendly, then?" 

“He’s- er… he’s not a girl.” He suddenly gulps, feeling a lump of embarrassment rise in his throat along with the heat flushing into his cheeks, turning the smooth tan into deep rose.  She pauses, dropping the curtain or whatever she was mindlessly fiddling with, her grin disappearing in confusion.

“What?"  Dan shrugs, his clammy fingers finding his cufflink again. "There was a shortage of girls." 

"Shortage of  _girls_ …?" She repeats, as if it’s as confusing and complex as the Quantum Theory. 

"Yeah, I-… he was, um, a beginner, and so was-" 

"You’re not a  _beginner_!” She pulls a disgusted face, as if being a beginner is the equivalent to being a rapist. 

“I’ve had about  _four lessons_.” Dan contradicts. “I’m hardly an expert." 

She gives him a sharp glare through her narrowed eyes. "So who’s this partner of yours, then?” She sighs, a lot less enthusiasm in her voice. 

“He- er… his name’s Phil, I think.” Dan mumbles. 

“Is  _he_ a beginner?" She mutters disapprovingly, although she’s not sure what answer she’s expecting other than a 'yes.' 

"Pretty sure he is.” Dan answers. “That’s why she put us together. Because there was no one else in the class.” He attempts to explain again in the hopes that she can stop acting as if all this is entirely  _his_ fault. She gives him another sigh as if just to make sure he’s aware of her disapproval. “It’s hardly  _my_ fault?” Dan mutters resentfully. 

“I never said it was.” She says, taking it upon herself to rearrange the ornaments on top of one of the cabinets. Her defences are useless. She’s made her opinions on the situation quite clear enough, and her naturally stubborn tendencies won’t allow them to change anytime soon. Dan eyes the table up and down again, feeling for his phone in his pocket, before beginning to make his way over to the door, although the firm, black soles of his ballroom shoes clopping against the wooden floorboards ruins any efforts of trying to be discreet about it. She turns around, her suspiciously narrowed eyes following him. 

“Get changed." 

"Gladly." Dan replies once he’d reached the doorway, returning his mother’s glare. Like he’d willingly stay in this fucking Disney-like frilly disaster a single moment than he absolutely had to. 

"You should’ve taken those off.” She frowns at Dan’s unnecessarily loud shoes, sighing at his lack of obedience towards such a basic house rule he’d been trained to obey since he was about four. “You’ll mark the floors if you’re not careful." 

"Good.” Dan quietly grumbles, refraining from looking up. 

“What was that?”

“Will do!” He calls back in a mockingly bright voice, rephrasing his sentence immediately as he slips out into the hallway. He immediately goes for the nearest staircase, clambering up two at a time until he’d reached the top, allowing a sigh of relief as he’s finally within touching distance of his bedroom door. 

“Ah, Daniel.” Audrey emerges from behind his door, nearly making Dan shit himself from the amount she’d made him jump 

“What?!” He clutches his heart. She rolls her eyes, jerking her head back into his newly-tidied room. 

“Don’t you think next time you choose an outfit, you could possibly make less of a bombsite out of your room while doing it? That took me the best part of this afternoon." 

"Sorry.” He mumbles, ducking his head. “I lost my shirt." 

"I gathered.” She raises her thin eyebrows, throwing a grin at Dan. 

“Thanks, Audrey.” He returns the grin, watching her disappear down the hallway. He shuts the bedroom door immediately after as if preventing any more unwanted guests unexpectedly make an appearance in the one room in the house he can call his own. He lets out a sigh of content, wriggling straight out of his scratchy uniform and replacing the stupid Cravat framed with frills with his favourite Blink-182 hoodie, and his annoyingly itchy trousers with his checked pyjama pants. Fuck dressing up tonight. After that, Dan doubts he ever wants to go near another item of remotely formal clothing ever again. He whips out his phone, collapsing on his bed and snuggling into his freshly plumped-up pillow. He’s in need of moral support, despite how much (or little) his mother will approve.

 **dan:** _we’re having a family gathering tonight fml all of you come over mine?_ he taps, a grin tugging at his lips.  _bring alcohol._


End file.
